Chapter 13 #3
They were interrupted by a knock on the front door of the shop and a man with glasses propped on top of a shock of white hair peered in. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked in a rough voice.
‘Going on?’ Maureen asked, her back stiffening. ‘How do you mean?’
The man entered the shop and looked around. ‘I mean, what the hell are you doing here? This, as far as I know, is private property.’
Brian suddenly growled softly as the man glared at Ciara.
‘Shh, Brian,’ Ciara chided before she turned to the stranger. ‘I’m the owner of these premises, so yes, it’s private property. What gives you the right to come in here and ask questions, anyway?’
‘I’m a neighbour and I care about what happens to this place,’ he said. He was around seventy years old, tall and dressed in corduroy trousers, a denim shirt and loafers on his bare feet. He would have been attractive if it wasn’t for his bad manners.
Maureen kept staring at him, as if she recognised him from somewhere.
‘Oh my God, you’re Paul Murray,’ she suddenly exclaimed, looking excited.
‘The singer,’ she explained, pointing at him.
‘Ciara, that man was hugely famous in Ireland in the nineteen seventies. He was our Cliff Richard and Frank Sinatra rolled into one. I listened to you every time you were on the radio, Paul. Oh, you were wonderful.’
‘A lifetime ago,’ Paul Murray muttered, ignoring the praise. ‘Lots of older people like you still remember me, which is a huge pain in the neck. But I didn’t call in here to sign autographs or get my photo taken.’
‘Not that anyone would ask for that,’ Maureen said, looking cross. ‘I had no idea you had turned into a grumpy old man. How come you live here in this godforsaken part of County Wicklow?’
‘Wouldn’t you love to know,’ Paul Murray said.
‘No, actually, we wouldn’t,’ Ciara snapped, feeling angry at the way he had been talking to her mother. ‘And if you don’t mind, we’d like you to leave. We have work to do.’
‘You haven’t told me who you are and what you’re doing here,’ Paul Murray said, peering curiously at Ciara. ‘Martha Fitzgerald asked me to keep an eye on the place. I know she passed away a while back, but not who was her heir.’
‘Well, I am,’ Ciara said. ‘My name is Ciara Doyle, and this is my mother, Maureen. Martha Fitzgerald left me the shop and the house in her will.’
‘I see,’ Paul Murray said, ‘Well, Martha was a strange old bird like some of the others in her gang.’
‘What gang?’ Maureen asked.
‘The old witches’ gang. But they’re all gone now, so what does it matter?’ He glared at Brian, who was still growling behind Ciara. ‘You have a very big, vicious dog, I see. I’d advise you to keep him away from me.’
‘We’ll all keep away from you,’ Maureen retorted.
‘Good,’ Paul Murray said. ‘Well, whatever you do, don’t think you can run this place as some kind of business. You’ll need planning permission for any renovations, and they will not be approved by this village.’
‘We’re not going to do anything much with it,’ Ciara said. ‘Least of all apply for planning permission.’
‘Yeah, right. Okay. See you around.’ He stood there for a while and then turned around and walked through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
‘What an obnoxious man,’ Ciara said. ‘I can’t believe he was some kind of star once.’
‘But he was,’ Maureen said. ‘A big star. I bought all his records and watched him on TV whenever he was on. It’s awful to think he’s become a sour old man. But I think it’s because he’s very sad. I could see it in his eyes. Maybe he’s still grieving for his wife.’
‘Did she die recently?’ Ciara asked.
‘No, about five years ago,’ Maureen replied. ‘I remember seeing it in The Irish Times. But he could still be sad about it and that might make him angry with the world. I felt the same when my Frank died. But then I didn’t know who to be angry with, really, so I tried to turn my mind away.’
‘I know how sad you were,’ Ciara said. ‘And I’m sorry I didn’t give you the support you needed.’
‘You were a great help in many ways,’ Maureen said. ‘I couldn’t expect you to give up your whole life for me.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ Ciara said softly.
‘The old witches’ gang,’ Maureen said as if to herself. ‘I wonder what he meant by that?’
‘Didn’t Oisín say something about Martha and a few women who had this mission or something?’ Ciara said. ‘Could be the same group Paul Murray was talking about.’
‘Probably.’ Maureen took the broom that Ciara was holding and started to sweep the floor. Then she stopped sweeping and looked at Ciara. ‘I know you’re dying to look into that box. Why don’t you go upstairs and go through it? I’ll be fine here cleaning and sorting.’
‘I’d insist on helping you if I didn’t know how much you love it,’ Ciara said, smiling at her mother. ‘Give me a shout if you need me.’
‘I will,’ Maureen said and resumed her task.
Ciara nodded and left her mother to it while she went upstairs to look through the box of dreams, her heart beating at the thought of what she might find. Martha’s identity had been a mystery until now. Would the contents of the box reveal the truth?